Parting Shot
by Ghost4
Summary: Missing/extended scene for "Shot in the Dark" Shawn H/C. Rating for Lang.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Parting Shot

Author: ghost4

Rating: M (For language. Three uses of the 'f' word. I think with the night Shawn had, they can be excused.)

Disclaimer: Not mine, not even a little bit.

Authors Note: Missing scene for "Shawn Takes a Shot in the Dark" – not betaed, so this might change at any time. I really didn't mean for this to go multi-chaptered – but Shawn is not known for shutting-up, so I guess it was to be expected.

* * *

"Dad, I have a clear shot," Shawn declared from his precarious place on the hood of Lassie's car. The adrenaline that had started flowing as soon as he saw Lassie and Gus' cars coming up behind the truck was surging wildly now. It had flooded his system like ice water, numbing the bullet wound and washing away his exhaustion. It was weird, how good he felt considering the shape he was in. "Give me the gun!"

He saw the hesitation in his father's eyes, but now was really not the time.

"_Do it_!"

Henry Spencer responded to the tone and the logic, and passed the gun on. Shawn braced his hand between the door and the side mirror for stability – lord knew he lacked that even at the best of times, and this was clearly not the best of times.

He sighted and pulled the trigger.

His first shot went wide, the echo of the recoil thrumming up his arm and jarring torn flesh. The pain in his shoulder spiked to nova levels…and Shawn felt himself getting pissed off.

It was enough. He'd been chased and clubbed and confined and _shot_. He'd been scared, he'd been despairing, and he'd been panicked. And now they had finally managed to piss him off.

Everything narrowed. He felt no pain, he forgot about being on the car, he didn't even see his dad in front of him anymore. All he saw, all he cared about, was the gun in his hand, and the fucking truck.

This was ending. Now.

The next three shots went where he put them, through the front grill, blowing the truck's engine. Now, whatever happened, the bastard wouldn't be getting away.

The thought drained all the anger from him – and the adrenaline high he'd been riding started fading with it. The guy was caught, even if the chase wasn't over yet.

He saw the truck slowing, and he felt the car underneath him jerk.

With the last of his adrenaline born strength, Shawn clung to both the gun and the hood, knowing how Lassie liked to spin his car in dramatic stops. The idiot wouldn't think to restrain himself just because a wounded person was draped across his hood.

The car spun in a squeal of brakes and testosterone, ending up blocking the highway. The truck halted.

…And Shawn was officially done. He had nothing left. He was tired and he hurt and he really, really just wanted to sleep for awhile. He was aware that someone would need the gun, so he transferred it to his good hand and held it out – and laid his head down on the warm hood, closing his eyes.

He was relived when it was snatched away.

For half a second the hot sun felt so good on his back… he was pretty cold. It felt like he'd been cold for hours –

– Then there was a hand at his pants, and he was snatched clear of the car as quickly as the gun had been snagged from his fingers. The world spun as he fought to keep his feet under him, not really sure what had just happened, but knowing that a fall would wake his shoulder back up and he just couldn't deal with that level of pain again so soon.

He kept his feet. Somehow, he kept his feet. He was vaguely aware that Lassie was yelling behind him; that Lassie was, in fact, arresting the fucktard who had killed Mr. Pink in front of him; the fucktard who had been planning to kill _him_. And Shawn wanted to care, he really did – but it was hard to care about that when his shoulder was on fire and the world was freezing and he really couldn't say which way was the way back to the car.

He knew he was crashing. But he was helpless to stop it, lost in a swirl of pain and heat and exhaustion.

"Shawn. C'mere. C'mere."

His dad's voice. His dad's hands. Shawn felt them, and felt the world resolve back into solidity again. Because that's what his dad was – solid and strong and immovable. He was an anchor, something that tied Shawn down when he wanted to break free, but also a comforting weight when the world threatened to engulf him and wash him away.

"C'mere, son," he said, his voice full of concern and soft with a tone Shawn had almost never heard before.

"Dad," Shawn heard himself gasp, letting the hands – warm and calloused and familiar as anything – sweep him forward despite his disorientation.

"That's it," his dad almost whispered, guiding him. And then he leaned him against the car. Shawn's internal map resolved, and just like that he knew where he was again. He leaned against the car in relief. The heat of it felt _extraordinary_. Shawn slumped there, letting the warmth of the metal seep into his exhausted body. He watched dazedly, head down on the car, as his father stepped over to help control the rat-bastard.

Lassiter glanced up, meeting his eyes for a second.

"Nice shooting, detective."

Detective. The word revived him like a slap. He felt himself reconnect with the situation and nearly groaned. He raised his head. "Did you just call me detective?" he asked wearily.

There was a hesitation, then Lassiter snapped, "No." The look on his face was …discomfited.

The look on his dad's face….

Shawn just couldn't deal with that; definitely not now, and probably not ever.

As always when he was uncomfortable, when he couldn't handle something, his mouth took off without him.

"Shouldn't you wait for Diesel and Rodriguez before you slap on the cuffs on him?" Shawn asked. He pointed behind them to Gus' car, limping up the highway.

The odd comment had worked though. His dad sent him a vaguely irritated glance, then turned his back to watch the car approach.

Much better. Backs were safer than that look.

All the same, now that he was more aware of his surroundings it did not escape his attention that he was in almost the exactly same position as the creepy killer guy, slumped over the car.

Only Shawn was pretty sure he hurt more. And he _knew_ that wasn't fair.

He was pretty sure he didn't deserve to be sprawled over the car like a perp, either; but he was unable to straighten up even if he wanted to. His body had the consistency of a wet noodle… and about the same tensile strength. He was lucky the car was there under him. Without it he would be on the ground.

So moving anymore, for any reason, was out of the question at this point. Even to distance himself from creepy killer guy.

He slumped down further, letting his shoulder almost press into the warm metal. Nothing, and he really did mean _nothing_, had ever felt as good as that steady heat.

And he would continue to mean it, until someone gave him some pain killers.

Anytime would be nice. Sooner would be better. Because his shoulder really did stin…

The rat-bastard kicked out at Lassie, who was turned away, watching Gus' car. It didn't do anything except tick Lassie off, and Lassiter expressed that anger by slamming him back down into the hood so hard he rocked the car. Shawn's body jerked with the movement.

It was like somebody scraping fingernails across his raw nerves.

The world came unmade. Cold black blossomed across his vision; white-hot agony blotted out his thoughts – reality went grey in the mix…

His body was red and cold and raw. Everything swirled sickeningly, endlessly….

"Breathe, Shawn," his dad said, suddenly much too close, and Shawn forced his eyes open. He found himself sitting on the ground, leaning back against the car. He had no memory of falling, but from the worried look on his dad's face, he must have. His dad was on his knees in front of him, one hand on his cheek. "That's it," he said in that same strange, calm voice. "Keep your eyes open, Shawny. Okay? Keep your eyes open for me, son."

His dad hadn't called him 'Shawny' since he was four and fell off the back porch. He'd needed five stitches to close the gash. His father had held his hand the whole time.

Then yelled at him all the way home.

He'd known he wasn't supposed to go outside alone, but it had been a really bright day, and he'd only wanted to see the way the sun turned so brilliant at the edges of the clouds. So bright it was dazzling, so beautiful that it had made his eyes sting…

"Shawn!"

His eyes snapped back open, his head jerking up. The movement sparked pain, and he found himself arching against it, his jaw clenching to keep the shout back.

"Easy, son. Just breathe through it. Breathe with me, Shawn. In, out." His dad demonstrated, pulling long steady breaths in, and letting them out slowly. Shawn consciously tried to mimic his father, slowing his panting breaths and forcing himself to breathe through his nose.

It helped. He felt more awake as the black flowers at the edge of his vision retreated a bit. The world expanded.

He was shivering.

That was weird.

"He okay?"

Shawn glanced up, frowning. It was Gus, looking worried… which was not all that different from his normal expression, really. But when had Gus gotten here? Hadn't he just been driving the car up? How had Shawn missed it? Just how long had he been…grayed out?

"He'll be okay," His dad replied, sounding comfortingly sure. "You got that ready for me yet?"

Gus handed his dad a piece of cloth… it was a chunk of shirt. From the color and size, it was approximately half of one of Lassiter's shirts. Shawn chuckled, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. He got to ruin one of Lassie's shirts and there was no way he'd be blamed for it. He hoped it had been one of his favorites.

"Take a breath, Shawn," his dad advised. "This is gonna hurt."

His dad slipped one part of the shirt behind his back, and the other he pressed against the entry point in his shoulder. He pushed with what Shawn was sure was unnecessary pressure.

Shawn gasped against the acidic burn, his feet automatically digging into the dirt as his body attempted to flinch away. "Breathe, Shawn," his father reminded, again softly, calmly. "Don't pant. Breathe. How far is that ambulance?" he said, in an _entirely_ different tone to someone else. Shawn didn't bother to open his eyes to find out who. It was kind of nice to be on this side of his dad's tones for once.

"They just radioed. They're about two minutes out."

Lassiter's voice. Lassiter's car. Lassiter's shirt. Did he owe Lassie for the rescue, as lame as it had been?

"Is that my shirt?" Lassie suddenly demanded, and Shawn found himself grinning despite the pain.

No. He didn't owe Lassie…. It was _way_ worse.

He owed his dad.

Well…crap.

This was going to be about as pleasant as getting shot.

He raised his head, opening his eyes. He reached up to catch his dad's arm. His dad looked up from the wound instantly – though the steady pressure never wavered, pushing the burning sensation of the wound ever deeper into his body.

"What, Shawn? What is it? Something wrong?"

He swallowed past a throat so dry that it clicked. "Thank you, Dad," he said, and was shocked at how rough he sounded. He cleared his throat and tried again. "What you taught me, worked. What you gave me, it kept me alive."

His father's face spasmed. He swallowed this time. The pressure on his shoulder wavered, just the slightest amount. "_You_ kept you alive, Shawn. That's all that's important. We'll talk about it later. Right now, you need to stay still."

Stay still? Hadn't he just jumped from a moving truck onto a moving car, fired a gun, and ridden the car through a ridiculously unnecessary spinning stop? _Now_ his dad wanted him to stay still?

Well, that was… irksome.

And a blatant lie.

But, whatever. If that was the way his dad wanted to play it, then that was fine. Shawn didn't have any plans to call him on it. Mostly because still felt better. Moving accompanied ouchies.

"Shawn, open your eyes."

So moving was definitely out. He was tired of hurting. But that didn't make his dad right. It just didn't.

And he'd tell him so.

"Shawn?"

Later.

When he felt better.

"C'mon, kid. Wake up."

Because he really felt like crap right now.

A new wave of vertigo swept through him; he felt light, airy… vaguely motion sick. He almost felt like he was floating, just an inch above the ground. Just a shade outside his body. The heavy burn of the bullet was pushing him up like smoke, filling his vision with grey again.

"Shawn!"

And then the smoke went black.

**


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Parting Shot

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: Not mine. No, really.

Author's Note: Well, this chapter happened faster than expected. *is glad* Still not betaed. Apologies in advance.

* * *

Henry watched as his son passed out again. He took his sweet time about it. "Just like you to drag things out, including loosing consciousness," he griped.

But Henry was honest enough with himself to know he was only angry because he was worried. Sure, Shawn wasn't bleeding torrents, but he'd been bleeding steadily, constantly – and probably had been for hours. The wound would never have had time to knit, the way Shawn had been moving… and had been moved. The shirt Henry had used to try and staunch it was already becoming saturated.

Henry could do the math. Shawn had lost quite a bit of his blood volume. They were only lucky that Shawn hadn't passed out awhile ago.

They were lucky that Shawn was a stubborn son of a bitch.

It wasn't something Henry spent a lot of time being happy about, but today….

Today, he couldn't regret it.

He reached out, running a hand down his son's cheek. Shawn looked washed out, pale; and he was getting clammy. Just as Henry was thinking shock, Shawn started shivering faintly.

Well, again, that wasn't surprising. Henry had been waiting on it since Shawn had collapsed a few minutes ago. The kid's stubbornness and adrenaline could only get him so far.

"Where's the damned bus, Lassiter?"

"I see it," O'Hara called back. "It's coming up the highway now. It's almost here." She and Lassiter had been riding double on the perp ever since the fool had kicked at Lassiter. They were waiting for a black and white to ship his ass back to the city.

Gus hunkered down next to them. "Not long now."

"Nope," Henry agreed. His hands were wet with his son's blood.

Gus shifted uneasily, trying not to look directly at the mess. "Is there anything I can do?"

"You could get your tire changed so that when they take Shawn, we have a way to follow."

Gus leapt up. "Oh my god – good thinking. I'm on it."

The kid hurried away. God knew Henry liked Gus, and he never underestimated how good he had been for Shawn – both as a kid and after they reached what passed for their adulthood. But the boy was not exactly skilled in coping abilities.

"Guess you've been good for him, too, huh, kid?" Henry murmured to his unconscious son. "I should pay more attention to that."

Behind him, he heard the ambulance pull up. He knew it had been less than ten minutes since the chase had ended, but it felt like hours. "Get you taken care of now, kiddo," he said quietly, not bothering to turn away from Shawn.

A few second later the EMTs hurried up.

"Hey," said the girl, crouching down next to them. "What have we got here?"

"He was shot probably about five or six hours ago. He's been in the woods, tied up, and playing rough since. The bleeding won't stop, and the pain seems to be pretty intense at times. He's been complaining about being cold, but he feels hot and clammy to me. He just started shivering."

She nodded, dropping her overly friendly attitude in response to his tone. One thing Henry liked about EMT's – they were adaptable. "How long has he been unconscious?" she asked, breaking open her kit.

"He passed out fully about two minutes ago, but he's been fading for the last ten."

Her partner came up with the gurney. "You related?" the girl asked him.

"He's my son," Henry answered, feeling his heart twist.

She seemed to feel his upset before he did. "He's going to be okay, sir. We're going to take real good care of him." She put her hands over his, taking over applying pressure to the wound. "You need to give us room to work now."

Reluctantly, Henry moved back, turning his son over to them.

They moved in, seeming competent and knowledgeable. They said words like exposure and blood-loss and dehydration and shock in between medical jargon that Henry couldn't decipher. None of it sounded great… but none of it sounded like tragedy building either.

The black and white finally pulled up, Karen Vick right behind it. After a long lull of nothing, everything was getting done at once.

That was typical of police work.

Shawn half-woke, groggy and in pain. The paramedics spoke to him, and made new comments about head injuries and possible concussions.

The detectives locked the grease monkey in the car. That was a relief. It was dangerous to not have a violent criminal under proper control.

Besides, it cut down on the temptation to go over there and wring his scrawny little neck.

"Dad?"

It was weak and confused, and it was more then enough to jerk Henry's attention away from the perp. He moved over to his son quickly, not even glancing back at the cops. "I'm right here, Shawn," he said, hunkering down next to him.

If anything, Shawn looked worse. Wan from blood loss and waxy with fever. He looked strained, pain reflected in his features. He had an IV now, the female paramedic holding the bag.

"I really want to go home now," Shawn said hoarsely.

Henry smiled a little sadly. "Not for awhile, buddy. You have to go to the hospital first." He glanced at the EMT, and she smirked.

"We gave him a pain killer, so he's going to be a little loopy. Do you know if he has any allergies? We asked him, but he went off on disco." She grinned outright.

"Shellfish and penicillin," Henry replied promptly and succinctly -- a skill his son had never been able to grasp.

She nodded. "Check. I'll note it."

"Sherri? We're ready to go," her partner said.

"Dad?" Shawn said, confused. He looked a little panicked around the edges. And that should surprise no one, considering that he'd spent the last few hours getting shoved into vehicles and hurt by strangers.

Henry sighed, running a hand though Shawn's hair trying to sooth him – and wincing at the blood that had dried on them. "It's okay, son. They're paramedics. They're going to help you and get you to the hospital."

"Nope," Shawn said, shaking his head, starting to struggle to get up. "Don't wanna. Thanks anyway." His speech sounded slurred and broken. He reached for the IV port, obviously intending to rip it out.

Both Henry and the paramedic reacted, reaching out to hold him still.

"Hey, now. Relax, big guy," she said. "We're here to help."

He ignored her, still resisting.

"Shawn!" Henry snapped, scared that his son would hurt himself in his struggles. Shawn automatically stilled, blinking up at him. Henry could see that Shawn was more out of it then awake. Shivering and glassy eyed, the balk of new bandages wrapped around his bare chest and shoulder, and they were already turning red. New bruises were blooming around his throat. Henry hated seeing Shawn like this – so vulnerable. The one thing Shawn never was, was vulnerable.

But he was confused and his senses were overloaded and that would leave Shawn as disorientated and bewildered as few things ever could. So now he was waiting for Henry to tell him what to do, who to trust.

Henry patted him on the shoulder. "These are good people, Shawn. They are here to help. You need help right now. So just lay back and let them do what they need to, got me?"

He swallowed, watching Henry with eyes that had always seen too much. Then he nodded, relaxing into their hands. Henry wasn't sure if he gave in because he trusted him… or if he was just too done in to keep fighting.

Either way, it got him into the ambulance without a fight, so whatever worked…

Henry watched as they levered Shawn onto a backboard, and then onto the gurney. They were moving with the quickness of a situation where time was important – but not rushing like it was the difference between life and death.

"We're headed for Cottage," Sherri told him.

"We'll be right behind you," Henry answered.

Gus had trotted up at some point, and he nodded. "The tire's fixed. We're good to go."

Henry glanced at the cops. Vick flipped her hand at him. "Go. We'll catch up with you there."

**


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Parting Shot

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: still not mine. *is sad*

Okay, so not my favorite chapter, but then again, I'm not into the ship thing.

As for any chapter: any comments, good, bad, or indifferent are welcome.

* * *

It took hours to get the paperwork in order. Juliet leaned back in her chair, pleased that it was done and absently staring across the desk at her partner. He looked done in, bags under his eyes and his suite a wrinkled mess. She supposed she didn't look much better. They had both been going since three this morning. Or last night. Or something.

So they were both tired, but satisfied. The chief had personally commended them on their 'excellent' work – which included following Shawn's clues, and putting together a case he'd already solved and that they had completely dismissed in the first place.

It was a little hard to be proud of any of that.

But Shawn was still alive; and they had helped with that part. So yeah, there was a little satisfaction.

Thinking of Shawn made her realize that they hadn't heard anything from Gus or the Spencers. She really wanted to know how Shawn was doing.

"I'm going to head over to the hospital," Juliet said to Lassiter. "I want to check on Shawn before I go home and crash. You want to ride together?"

Lassiter frowned. Juliet knew him well enough to know his hesitation was less about not wanting to see Shawn than it was about his personal embarrassment. He'd scoffed at the ice-cream truck accident. He'd missed out on the armor truck robbery; and he'd had to use Shawn's own clues to locate his kidnapping victim. Lassiter's ego had not had a good day. But she also knew from the way he kept glancing at the clock that he actually wanted to check on the psychic.

"He's not going to be mad you know," Juliet reassured, keeping her voice low.

Lassiter gave her an irritated look. "No. He's going to be smug. Which is way worse."

She couldn't help the grin. Oh yeah, he'd be smug. But after the way he'd looked on the highway, she could stand to see him looking a little smug. It would erase the image of him looking half dead. Besides, "He kind of deserves a little smugness with this one, don't ya think?"

Lassiter glared at her. Then threw his pen down. Then glared at her some more.

She just waited.

"Fine," he huffed. He stood and grabbed his jacket. He glared at her some more as he yanked it on. "If you really must go, then I guess I could drive you. But I hope you know how much this is putting me out."

"Oh, I'm aware," she responded, hiding her grin as she grabbed her purse.

Lassiter wasn't a marshmallow inside… he was marshmallow goo – goo that had been set on fire, burnt to a blackened crust, then rolled in cactus needles and poison ivy.

Juliet rubbed at her dry eyes. Great. Now she was channeling Shawn. She was way too tired, and by all rights she should be heading home.

But she wouldn't be able to really rest until she saw Shawn.

Juliet blinked at the sun as they walked to the car. Somehow it had faded into early evening while they were processing the paperwork. They'd been at this all day.

The ride to the hospital was quiet. Both of them were too tired to talk much.

A quick question at the reception desk got them Shawn's room number. A quick trip up the elevator got them to his room.

His door was shut. Juliet rapped softly before she opened it. "Hey? Anybody awake?" she called awkwardly.

"Hey," Gus called back, his voice low, looking up and smiling. He was sitting in a chair next to the window. He'd pulled the bed-table over and was working on his own paperwork. Henry Spencer was in the other chair, near the bed. He nodded at them, not bothering to glance up from his _Field and Stream_ as they crossed the room to join them.

Shawn was ensconced in the bed, sleeping deeply. Various monitors ticked away. An oxygen tube was wrapped around his face. His shoulder was heavily bandaged, and his arm was strapped down across his chest. A cushion supported his elbow, keeping the strain off of his shoulder. Over all he actually looked worse than he had on the highway – now cleaned up, she could easily see the deep circles under his eyes and his heavy bruises ringing his throat. Juliet frowned. "Where did those come from?"

Henry glanced up, giving Lassiter a look that Juliet couldn't quite decipher. "We don't know yet. They probably choked him while we were at the gas station to keep him quiet, but we'll have to wait on Shawn to tell us for sure."

She felt Lassiter stir uncomfortably behind her.

Juliet sighed. She'd forgotten how Henry could be even when he wasn't playing world's manliest man. "So, how is he doing?" she asked, pulling Henry's attention away from her nervous partner.

It was Gus who answered. "He's dehydrated and suffering from exposure – thankfully that stuffs not too bad. A few blankets and the IV took care of most of it. His blood count was low, but they gave him some plasma, so his color's better. He's running a fever, and they're pumping him full of antibiotics trying to keep the infection from getting a foothold. I guess his shoulder was a mess when they tried to clean it out."

"Sure," Henry said bitterly. "A few hours running around in the woods and then a few more hours where the only treatment he got was a dirty shop-cloth duck taped to the outside of his shirt? That makes for a really hygienic wound."

Shawn shifted in his sleep, frowning. Henry instantly sat back, obviously forcing himself to relax. Shawn took a deeper breath, almost settled – then coughed, his face twisting in pain as his hand came up, pushing against his shoulder as his body jerked. Henry stood up, taking Shawn's hand and pulling it away from the bandages. "Hey, kid, c'mon now. Leave those alone."

Shawn's eyes opened, glazed with drugs and pain. He looked at his father… then his eyes started flicking around the room touching on everything, landing on nothing. It was something Juliet had seen him do countless times, but had never really noticed.

Henry reached out, gently covering Shawn's eyes with his hand. Shawn made a peevish noise. Gus bit his lip.

"No," Henry said softly. "Not right now, Shawn. Everybody's fine. You're safe. You did a good job, but you don't need to do that right now."

"That won't shut him off," Gus said quietly, but he sounded vaguely angry. "He _can't_ shut it off."

Juliet was shocked. She had never seen him angry at Henry before; he'd always seemed too frightened of the man to ever get mad at him.

"No," Henry agreed with Gus, sounding tired. "I know. But hopefully it will stall him long enough for him to go back to sleep."

Shawn tugged weakly at his father's hand. "No hats," he muttered.

Henry looked… upset at the odd words. But his voice showed none of it when he spoke. "I know. No hats. Go to sleep, Shawn. Let go, and go to sleep."

Shawn tossed his head, but Henry didn't move his hand. Finally he took a deeper breath and his body relaxed back into sleep.

Henry pulled his hand away. "He's getting hot again," he said to no one, and pulled a cloth from a basin on the nightstand. He rang it out and laid it over Shawn's eyes.

Lassiter was watching it all with considering eyes. "What was that all about?" He asked suddenly. "All that about the hats?"

Henry stiffened. "He's drugged and feverish. He's probably dreaming about hats." He picked his magazine up as he sat back down, and snapped it open.

Lassiter glared at them both, his eyes sweeping from one to the other; the same way her cat's tail would thrash when she got irritated. Lassiter knew when he was being fed a line – it was what made him a good closer – and there was nothing he hated more. Juliet watched him mentally sharpen his claws.

"Then why did you say that he can't shut it off? What, _exactly_, can't he shut off?" Lassiter asked slyly.

Henry refused to raise his eyes from his magazine.

"His visions," Gus said, giving the detective an impatient look. "His visions don't stop just because he's not feeling up to having them."

Lassiter looked incredulous. "So he's having visions about a lack of hats?"

"How should I know?" Gus snapped. "I don't have the stupid visions." He glanced at Shawn. "Thank God," he added.

Henry winced, without looking up.

"Look, guys," Juliet stepped in – it was one thing to question a suspect, but it was wrong to interrogate a family in their loved one's hospital room. Lassiter was going too far. She knew part of it was his over all contempt – not for Shawn, not really, but for his 'psychic' abilities. Lassiter would never be a believer; and because he didn't believe, he had to think that Shawn was lying to him. And Lassiter hated being lied to. "Guys," she went on, "Cool it, okay? You're going to wake him up if you keep going."

She sighed, knowing she needed to get her senior partner out of the room before he could really upset Henry and Gus… or disturb Shawn.

"It's pretty obvious Shawn isn't going to be up to talking for awhile," she said. "We just wanted to stop in and check on him anyway. We'll get out of here and let you guys rest." And both Henry and Gus looked like they could use some sleep. They'd been going since four AM, too.

She turned, pushing at her partner, who could be as stubborn and brilliant in his own way as Shawn sometimes.

Lassiter hesitated though. "I hope he mends quickly," the detective said, not quite able to look anyone in the eye.

Henry looked up, seeming less agitated. "Thank you for your help in finding him."

Lassiter nodded, accepting the words more than the actual thanks. There was still the issue that they hadn't really managed to do much on this one. Shawn had pretty much saved himself. That phone call had been what pinpointed his location. That phone call that had been so…unsettling.

The one that had tied her stomach in knots, made her heart want to explode and had almost lodged her foot in her mouth. Even now, she could feel the same slow tingle of horrible embarrassment that she'd felt when Shawn had said Abigail's name instead of hers. And she could remember the fear that had choked her, thinking Shawn was saying good-bye.

But that didn't matter now. Shawn was safe; sleeping in a hospital bed. And speaking of Abigail… "Has anyone thought to call his girlfriend yet? She might like to know where he is." Juliet's eyes lingered on Shawn. "I would."

Then she shook her head, forcing a smile. "I mean, if I were in Abigail's place," she added, only stammering a little. "We'll be back when Shawn's feeling a little better to get his statement. All of your statements, actually. We'll see you later." She hurried from the room, Lassiter not far behind her.

As the door shut, Juliet heard Gus berating himself for his thoughtlessness.

She was at the elevators before Lassiter caught up to her.

"What was that about?" he demanded as they got in.

She only shook her head, biting her lip against the uneasy mix of relief and despair that was making her sick to her stomach.

What was she supposed to do now?

The doors slid shut.

**


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Parting Shot

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: It's probably a good thing I don't own this, really. All things considered.

Author's Note: Hmm… I'm feeling odd about this fic. I don't know if it's the tone, or what, but I don't feel as if this is my best work. – On the other hand, it is some of my quickest. And it is totally self-indulgent H/C goo. Maybe I should find a plot to hang it on? LOL.

As always, any comments, good, bad, or indifferent, are welcome.

* * *

A steady beep. The subtle buzz of machinery. The smell of disinfectant – and plastic and recycled air.

It all added up to one place: Hospital.

_Great_.

Shawn opened his eyes, surprised at how hard it was to do that – at how sticky and dry they felt. He started to reach up to rub them…

A whiplash of pain drove through his veins, through his shoulder and chest. He gasped at the hot pulling sensation. It was like getting shot in reverse. Like something was trying to tear its way out of his flesh – something with snaggly teeth and really long claws.

Instantly he stopped moving. He panted through the burning ache, vaguely aware that there was a pillow under his shoulder keeping his arm at the most comfortable position. The arm itself was strapped across his chest, limiting its movement. That had probably saved him from passing out when he shifted it.

That and the drugs. He could almost feel them coursing through his body, his brain; numbing his senses and dulling his thoughts – a sensation that he loathed enough that he rarely even got drunk. But for once he didn't mind so much, as they put the beast trying to claw its way out of his shoulder back to sleep. He mentally promised not to try to move it again. No sense in waking that thing up. Nope, nope, no.

Thank god for hospitals and hospital drugs and hospital people.

Hospital people?

Persons?

Personnel?

Whatever. The nice people in the white coats and multi-colored scrubs who had the good drugs.

He hoped his nurses had Pooh scrubs. Or Tinker-Bell. There was something innately naughty about Tinker-Bell scrubs. Unless he pulled a guy nurse. Then Tinker-Bell scrubs would be more disturbing than anything.

Distracting himself with thoughts of pretty nurses, Shawn carefully tested his good arm. It moved without pain, and only tugged at his bad shoulder a little. The beast growled and grumbled, but didn't come all the way awake.

Awesome. He had mobility.

He finally managed to rub the sleep out of his gritty eyes; and it was pathetic how satisfying that was. The blankets shifted as he moved, and the air of the room swirled in, feeling almost frigid. Was this like the one time in recorded history where Santa Barbra was having a freak ice-storm?

He glanced out the window – past his father, racked out on the pleather recliner next to the bed – at the bright, blue sky.

Nope. Not the weather.

Well… crap. Perceived chills, skin that was overly sensitive and shivery, vague disorientation…

He had a fever.

On top of the drugs and the pain, he was going to be firing on exactly no cylinders.

This was just freaking perfect.

He closed his eyes again, blowing out an irritated breath. So long as he was running a fever, there was no way his father would let him check himself out AMA.

As soon as he closed his eyes he could feel the drugs again – pulling at him, trying to lull him back to sleep. He _hated_ feeling this groggy.

Of course, he hated the pain more, so it was probably a good trade off all things considered.

Still, he was kind of slept out now. Which was maybe not too surprising if his glance out the window could be trusted. It had looked like morning…and considering that he'd been loaded up in an ambulance and having his gun-shot would cleaned during the last morning hours he could recall, he'd most likely been sleeping the sleep of the overly medicated for the past sixteen hours or more. There was just no sleep left in him, groggy or not.

Which begged the question of what to do next.

His bladder answered that question, apparently deciding that if he wasn't dead and he was done sleeping that there were a few other things he should be attending to.

Which meant moving.

Which meant pain.

God, this just got better and better, didn't it?

Other option: staying right where he was.

Which involved eventual humiliation and tubes put in places that he didn't even want to comprehend.

Turned out he was less afraid of pain than of catheters. Huh, who knew?

He guessed that you really did learn something new every day.

He carefully pulled the covers off, shivering in the cooler air. Air that was getting into places it normally couldn't reach thanks to the hospital gown. Well, looked like his life was going to be just chock full of new little learning experiences for the foreseeable future.

What fun.

Grumpily, Shawn swung his feet over the edge of the bed, gritting his teeth as the monster in his shoulder clawed for balance at the movement. He sat there, panting, letting his shoulder and his stomach settle back down. Lesson four: Setting up was a head rush.

He glared at his father, sleeping sprawled out on the padded recliner. It wasn't that his dad was sleeping comfortably, it wasn't even the fishing magazine laying across his chest. It was more that he was there… and that Shawn was in a bad mood, and his head hurt and his shoulder hurt, and he was swimming in drugs, and damn it, _somebody_ should get glared at!

But maybe that somebody shouldn't be his dad, considering the man had obviously stayed with him all night.

Someone had thrown a blanket over his father. Shawn was sure he'd convinced all the nurses that he was the most amazing dad ever – so self-sacrificing, so giving.

So full of crap.

And so totally right. In this case. Shawn knew he wouldn't have survived without his father's early lessons.

Great. Now even his pride hurt.

Shawn sighed, working his way to his feet, trying to avoid all the tubes and cables running from various parts of him to various machines. He finally gave up, resorting to just jerking the cables that attached to his chest and finger off. He ignored the delicate alarms that sounded as the machines lost their input. He kept the IV…he wasn't stupid enough to pull that loose and face the creature in his shoulder all on his own.

Drugs were good for something after all.

Shawn took a hold of the IV stand, and then took a step.

His knees unhinged; his body just went limp. With a muted gasp he went down, trying not to focus on how badly this was going to hurt…

The world exploded. The creature in his shoulder roared, tearing its way deeper into his chest and down his arm. It pushed against his lungs, making it hard to pull a breath. His vision doubled, clouded, faded toward black…

"Hey, hey now, Shawn. What are you doing?"

His dad's voice pulled him back. He was kneeling on the floor in front of Shawn, looking confused and worried. Shawn blinked heavily, slowing realizing that he was more or less leaning against his dad. How not embarrassing. And he would care, as soon as the monster finished eating his insides.

"Hey son, you okay?" His dad sounded funny. Shawn looked up, and his dad brushed a hand over his face. Shawn reached up, confused. When the hell had he started leaking?

"What's going on, Shawn?" Henry asked, his voice soft. "Why did you get up?"

Why _had_ he gotten up? It had been so had to do, that there had to be a reason…. Then the pain receded, just a bit, just enough that he could think again. "Bathroom," he croaked, wiping his face.

Henry nodded. "Okay, let's get you up."

There were footsteps. A nurse came around the edge of the bed. "What happened?" he asked, joining them on the floor.

"He needed the bathroom and tried to get there on his own," Henry replied, that same little 'oh Shawn' tone that Shawn _hated_ coloring the words.

Shawn gritted his teeth to keep himself from snapping back.

The nurse nodded. "Okay, let's get this straightened out."

Henry held him, providing the balance that Shawn lacked completely. The nurse provided the lift. It hurt – oh god, did it hurt – but Shawn was back on his feet and shuffling toward the bathroom within moments.

They released Shawn at the bathroom door, and he took care of business. When he came back out, the nurse was gone and his father was waiting for him.

"Bed?" his dad offered, and Shawn muttered an affirmative kind of noise. Actual speech seemed a little beyond his skill-set at the moment.

His dad helped him back into bed, and pushed the button for the nurse. To hook all the leads back up, Shawn realized, slower than he should have. He was exhausted again – going to the bathroom had taken almost all of his energy.

He really didn't like this low energy stuff.

His father tucked in the blankets. "You doing okay?" he asked.

"No," Shawn hitched a breath. "I feel like crap, I hurt, and I'm in a _very_ bad mood. Fair warning."

His father smiled, and expression that was half tender, half amused, and half worried – and yes, that was three halves, but his dad was displaying more emotion than Shawn had ever seen before, so the expression probably deserved three halves.

"I think you're entitled to a bad mood, kid," his father said. "It'll get better. I know patience isn't your thing, but it _will_ get better."

"Promise?" Shawn asked, closing his eyes.

"Yeah. I promise."

"Okay."

Because if Henry Spencer said it, it would happen. That was one of the few things Shawn had faith in. It _would_ happen.

Even if Henry had to kill someone to get there.

**


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Parting Shot

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: So _completely_ not mine.

Author's Notes: Okay, I am really sorry about the long gap. I had a family emergency that ironically involved long periods of time spent in hospitals. As such, my mood was a little darker, and this chapter is a little sluggish – but I think Gus needed a little screen time. We could all use a friend like Gus.

For everyone who reviewed: I'm sorry that I haven't gotten back to you personally. Thank you for all the comments!

As always: Any review, good, bad, indifferent, or those intended for other fics, are welcome. ;)

* * *

Gus stepped off the elevator promptly at five forty-five, juggling his sample case, a stack of files, and a paper bag. He hadn't managed to get much actual work done at work today. A thin, and mostly incorrect, version of last nights adventures had hit the papers this morning, so Gus had been besieged by curious coworkers as soon as he got through the door. He'd played the hero, vaguely amused at his celebrity and popularity. There had been a time when he'd slunk into work, well rested and ready to take on the thrills of proper salesmanship – but invisible. He'd been unseen, unremarkable and unnoticed – and he'd thought he'd liked it that way. But things were different now. Now he was constantly tired, often distracted, and generally happy… and rarely invisible, even when he wanted to be.

He'd remembered how to laugh, how to play.

And there was no way he could regret that; even when Shawn was at his worst and he was tired and annoyed and worried and scared, he couldn't regret that. Especially when Sandra Burdock (who he'd been trying to catch the eye of for _weeks_ now) had wandered up to him in the hall and cooed about how brave he was, saving his friend, catching the bad guy. And he'd responded in a modest way that Shawn was worth it – and maybe he'd exaggerated his part in it a bit, maybe he'd hadn't actually rushed to the truck and disarmed the bad guy and untied Shawn – but he knew Shawn would back him up to Sandra, and that was another reason he couldn't regret having Shawn in his life.

Who _could_ regret having a friend like that? Even with the messes he made?

And he was relieved that he still had him after that night.

So Gus was in a good mood as he made his way to Shawn's room; and more than ready to just chill with his best friend for awhile. He was half surprised that the hall was so quiet and calm, though. No music from Shawn's room, no impromptu parties, no nurses giggling or storming off in an offended huff – and better yet, no sign that anyone had called security on him.

Something wasn't right here.

Gus slipped into the room, frowning a bit. The room was silent, except for the low mutter of the television. He half expected Shawn to be asleep, but there was a …tenseness to the air, like the build up of pressure right before a storm. Gus felt his stomach twist just a little. He rounded the curtain that shielded the bed, not knowing what to expect.

Shawn was awake, and sitting up in the inclined bed. He was alone, his eyes fixed on the television, his good hand restlessly working the remote. His expression was set in that strange, almost blank look that he got when he was really, really unhappy. He didn't glance away from the TV as Gus approached – he didn't acknowledge that Gus had entered at all, but Gus knew that Shawn had probably identified him from his footsteps before he even made it into the room. Shawn equally ignored the files and bag that Gus was carrying, having most likely already figured out what was in both. Shawn always knew things like that. He usually took the time to ask anyway – being 'normal' was something that he'd practiced desperately for years and he was so good at it now that even Gus often forgot that it was mostly a front.

When Shawn forgot to look, when he didn't ask, when he let his carefully constructed 'normal' slip, it was either because he was so tired that he couldn't pull up the energy, or because he was so stressed and upset that he just couldn't do it.

One look at his face and Gus knew which it was this time.

Gus came into the room, smiling as he crossed in front of the TV, and perched in the recliner that Henry had staked out last night. He pulled the rolling table over and dumped his files. He opened the sack, and pulled out the pineapple and mango smoothie and set it on Shawn's nightstand. Shawn bobbed his head in acknowledgement, but otherwise stayed focused on the screen. His finger pushed the channel button rapidly, steadily and repeatedly, like he was pulling a trigger – flip, flip, flip, flip.

Gus watched the shows flicker by, recognizing only one or two as the channels rolled. He knew that Shawn was probably picking up on almost all of them, recognizing the show or commercial almost instantly and moving on restlessly.

Flip, flip, flip, flip, flip.

Gus swallowed, his eyes moving between Shawn and the television, trying to gage his mood. It was weird, seeing Shawn sitting so still, not fidgeting or fiddling or running off at the mouth. Gus knew that the best way to judge what Shawn was thinking was to get him talking. Shawn had a hard time _not_ talking – and whatever he was feeling would come out sooner rather than later.

"So," Gus started, "where's your dad?"

Shawn didn't even blink, still staring at the TV. "He went home." _Flip, flip, flip_.

"Home?"

"He needed a bed, and a shower. Not necessarily in that order. Man was _ripe_." _Flip, flip, flip, flip, flip._

"How are you feeling?" Gus tried again.

"Fine."

Toneless. Succinct. Monosyllabic answers were never a good sign from Shawn. _Flip, flip,_ _flip._

Gus sighed. "So, if you're feeling so fine, you want to tell me what's going on?"

"Nothing." _Flip, flip, flip._

"Okay." Gus looked away, unable to watch Shawn as his jaw worked and he glared at the television. There was a plant sitting on the window ledge. It hadn't been there last night. Gus got up to investigate it, obviously turning his back and giving Shawn a minute.

Broad, sharp leaves supported a long, spindly trunk. At the top, a second nest of leaves clustered. The whole thing was about three feet tall. Gus was taken aback. "Is this a pineapple plant?"

"Yep."

"Wow." Gus reached out, running a finger over the heavy leaves. "Where'd that come from?"

"Delivery guy."

Gus huffed. "I meant –"

"I know what you meant. The guys at the station sent it." _Flip, flip, flip._

"That's awesome," Gus wasn't kidding. The plant was not only perfect for feeding Shawn's pineapple obsession, but it was just quirky enough, just oddball enough, that Shawn might actually take an interest in it for awhile. Once he blew off this funk, anyway.

Shawn just kept channel surfing. _Flip, flip, flip, flip_. He had to have rounded the whole dial by now. Probably twice.

The plant would look good in the office, anyway. Gus made a mental note to look up care of pineapple plants on the net when he got home.

"Speaking of the guys at the station," Gus said, sitting back down, "have you heard from Lassiter or Juliet?"

Shawn sighed, his shoulders looking a little less stiff. "Dad did. Jules said Lassie would be by sometime tonight to get my official statement. From what I heard, it's just routine now, anyway. My kidnaper is already talking deals with the DA."

Gus felt lighter for the news. "Good. Save us the hassle of a trial." Shawn on a witness stand was an experience that all of them tried to avoid at all costs. Shawn's normally flexible morality became rock solid under oath, and yet he had to maintain the psychic story. The nervousness of walking that line made him even more hyper and random than usual.

"That's what Dad said."

The words were said dryly, and held a mocking tone…but Gus knew Shawn wasn't mocking him. There was a faint and incredibly bitter self-loathing laced through the words that Gus had only heard from Shawn on a few occasions. Something in Gus' chest twisted at the sound.

_Flip, flip, flip._

His friend was hurting, physically and mentally, and Gus couldn't get in. Shawn had locked himself down tightly. It was familiar, and it was as frustrating now as it ever had been when they'd been kids.

"Have you talked to Abigail?" Gus asked, hoping that maybe she could get though to him right now.

Shawn stiffened. His finger hit the channel button faster, _flipflipflipflip._ "She was by earlier this morning," he said tonelessly.

Gus hesitated, all but hearing the ice cracking under him. "And how was she?"

Shawn smiled, a somehow brittle expression that reminded Gus of something….

"Scared," Shawn said, not looking away from the television, which was flickering through images so fast that they blurred.

Gus blinked. "Scared?" he asked. "Of what?"

"Of me. For me. Something to do with me, anyway." _Flipflipflipflipflip._

"_What_?"

"I'm messing up her world. She's a teacher. I'm…" he made a vague gesture with the remote, as if encompassing something. "I'm…all serial killers and bank robbers and things with guns. I'm unsafe, apparently. As well as unsane."

"Insane," Gus corrected absently, numbly, not even really aware of it.

"Right," Shawn nodded, still focused on the TV, "and not smart, either. Insmart."

"Unintelligent."

"That too." _Flipflipflipflipflipflipflip._ The movement of his fingers had taken on a new sharpness. He wasn't just pushing the button now – he was jabbing it, punching it.

Shawn unintelligent? That was preposterous. Shawn's brain might not work like an ordinary brain, but that didn't make him less intelligent. If anything Shawn was above average… well above. Gus had spent enough years when they were kids nursing a secret jealousy of that wickedly sharp mind to know that for a fact.

Gus felt his own temper heating. "Did she actually say this?" he demanded.

"She didn't need to," Shawn replied, his brief energy seeming to fade. He leaned into the pillows. And she wouldn't have. She could have been polite as can be, supportive as anything… but Shawn would still have seen it – and Gus knew better than to doubt Shawn's perceptions. He would have picked up on it like she was screaming it to the rooftops – and Shawn would have hidden his awareness from her, to save her feelings.

There were times when Gus could see how truly _awful_ having Shawn's weird gifts could be, and he was thankful again that it wasn't him.

Damn, but that sucked. Gus would never have expected it out of Abby…especially when Shawn was hurting.

Not that it was really her fault. She couldn't help how she felt, and no matter how hard she tried to hide those feelings, Shawn would have picked up on them. He couldn't help it, either.

Gus ached for his friend. "What did she say?" he asked, mostly to keep the conversation going. If Shawn stopped talking now he would just shut back down, and he would probably never talk about it again.

Shawn started to shrug, winced, and dropped the remote to clutch his shoulder. "Damn it," the words were almost whispered.

Gus popped up, biting his lip. "You need me to get the nurse?"

Shawn met his eyes for the first time, rolling them a little. "I'm fine, just moved funny. Besides, I get my next dose of Codeine in an hour or so. Sit down."

Gus sat, still watching him carefully. But he hadn't blanched and he wasn't gasping, so he was probably alright.

"So, what _did_ Abby say?" Gus asked.

Shawn sighed, picking up the remote and fiddling with it one handed, but not flicking through channels anymore.

"She said she was worried for me," Shawn eventually said. "She said that she'd always thought I was just…exaggerating when I told her some of the stuff we've done. She said that getting that call from Jules had been one of the scariest things that she'd ever felt, and that she knew how the wives of soldiers and cops and firemen felt now – and she didn't know if she could handle that over the long term. She wants to take a break for a bit. Get some space and see if she can be brave enough to live like that." He glance up, his face filled with a bitter humor. "What a job, huh? All the responsibilities and drama of a cop's life, with none of the steady pay, benefits, respect, or authority." He laid his head back on the pillows, staring at the ceiling.

"Well… that was a pretty pathetic thing to say."

Shawn looked back up at Gus, shocked…and a little bemused. "What? What she said, or what I did?"

"Both. But you can be excused, you're on painkillers." Gus smiled sympathetically. The unspoken _'she can't'_ hung between them. "You going to be okay?"

Shawn snorted. "Me? I'm fine. King of the world; hero of the hour. I'm a big boy, I can handle it." And there was that smile again, brittle and harsh.

And suddenly Gus remembered what it reminded him of – back in junior-high, there had been an awards ceremony. The kids who were on honor roll got the last period of the day off, and their family could come and watch them receive a certificate of accomplishment. Both of Gus' parents had come, and after the ceremony they were walking out to the parking lot when Shawn had sidled up to them, looking a little desperate.

"Hey, Mr. Guster," he'd said, trying to smile. "I was wondering if you could give me a lift home? The busses won't go out for another hour, and I can't get back into the building…. It doesn't have to be my home," Shawn had hurried to clarify, seeing the look on Mr. Guster's face. "I can walk home from your place if that would be easier."

It was Gus' mom who stepped up, though. "Where are your parents, Shawn?"

Gus remembered the trapped, hurt look, so quickly there and gone – and then Shawn was grinning rakishly at his mom. "You know how it is, Mrs. Guster. A kid can't have his parents around, ruining his rep. What would people think?"

"People would think that they cared," Mrs. Guster said, frowning at him. "We came for Burton," she reminded him, and not kindly. Gus had winced at her judgmental tone.

Shawn had blanched, then grinned, that same brittle, harsh expression that Gus had just seen. "I was just kidding, Mrs. Guster. Honestly. Dad had to work, and Mom was supposed to be here, but sometimes her seminars run a little long. And I don't mean to be a bother, I just need a ride home. I promise not to hang around and bug you guys."

"I'm sorry, Shawn," Gus' father had said, sounding not sorry at all. "We're not heading home. We're taking Burton out for ice-cream to celebrate his A-B honor roll – which will be all As next semester, correct, son?"

"Yeah, Dad. Of course."

"It will if he wants that new computer so badly," his mother interjected.

Gus remembered blushing and shrugging at Shawn, who had arched his eyebrows.

"So we really can't give you a ride home, Shawn," his father had finished. "This is for family only."

"Yeah," Shawn had said, his tone as false and brittle as his smile. "Yeah. I get that. Sure. You guys go enjoy your ice-cream. Sorry to bother you. Maybe Jimmy Saunder's folks can give me a lift; and if not, it's only and hour till the buses run. No problem. I'll see you tomorrow, Gus."

"You really okay?" Gus had asked, confused and more than a little scared by his expression.

"I'm fine, Gus. I'm a big boy, I can handle it. Go get your ice-cream."

Gus' mother had taken him by the hand, pulling him toward the car; Gus could still remember the tug of it, all these years later. "I'm sure you can, Shawn. And congratulations on your four point oh."

"Yeah," Shawn had said, already looking back across the hot blacktop. "Thanks."

It had been the next week that Shawn had been yelled at by Mr. French for not having his homework. Later, Gus had caught Shawn tearing his essay up and throwing it away. Gus had been appalled.

"That was your English assignment! Why didn't you turn that in, Shawn?"

Shawn had shrugged, staring at the paper. "Because it doesn't matter. Nothing here matters." Then he'd looked up, his face coming alive. "But _Magic_," and Shawn had pulled out a deck of brightly colored cards, "_Magic_ matters. Let's go!"

Magic had mattered for the next month.

Shawn had never made the honor roll again. And Gus had never forgotten that … dead smile.

The one that said nothing mattered. That _he_ didn't matter. The same one that Shawn wore now.

"Do you think it's over?" Gus asked quietly. "You and Abby?"

Shawn was once again fixated on the TV, flipping channels. "_She_ doesn't. At least not yet. She'll keep her distance till I'm better then she'll call, wanting to forget this afternoon even happened."

"When she calls, will you answer?"

"Of course."

"What will you say?"

Shawn hesitated, fingers slowing. Then he sighed. "Ask me about an hour _after_ she calls, because right now, I have no clue."

Gus sighed as Shawn went back to restlessly channel surfing. He frowned again as Shawn suddenly gasped, dropping the remote and clutching his shoulder. He watched as Shawn panted through the pain, then slowly relaxed as it passed. There was sweat along his upper lip. He went back to switching channels without acknowledging the spasm or Gus' worry.

"Shawn…?"

"Yes, Burton?" Shawn refused to meet his eyes. Using his full name was a distraction – Shawn was trying to make him mad…and in doing so, make him forget about what he'd just seen.

Not this time, though. If Shawn was hurt, Gus wasn't going to just let it pass. "Do you need me to get a doctor?" he asked.

"What for?" Shawn sounded honestly confused.

"Because you're hurting?"

"I've been shot, Gus. It tends to hurt." He frowned a little. "The movies really don't make that part very clear…"

Gus narrowed his eyes. "I know you hurt, but it shouldn't be like that. You should be down to a dull ache now, if they switched you to Codeine. That was acute."

"Why, thank you," Shawn exclaimed, fluttering his eyelashes. "You're pretty cute yourself, Guster."

"Shawn," Gus warned in his best 'don't mess with me' tone – a tone he'd perfected on Shawn years ago. "You want to tell me what's going on? Or do I have to call Henry?" He got out his cell and waggled it threateningly.

"You wouldn't." Shawn looked scandalized. "Dude, I just got him to _leave_!"

"Oh, wouldn't I," Gus said slyly. "Talk, or I dial." He held his thumb over Henry's speed dial.

"Okay! Okay! Just… don't call my dad. Jeeze." Shawn huffed a bit, glaring. "It's like being in Sunday school all over again."

"Spill, Shawn."

"It's nothing, okay? Just a little possible nerve damage…"

"Nerve damage!" Gus stood up again.

"Sit down," Shaw said, looking like he wanted to smile. "It's no big deal, Gus."

"It's nerve damage, Shawn! That's a big deal!"

"No, it really isn't. Look," he said starting to look worried about Gus' reaction. "It's okay, they don't even know if it's permanent yet."

"Permanent?" Gus demanded, feeling his heart rate spike. "It might be permanent?" He collapsed back into the chair. "Breathe, Guster. Breathe."

Shawn watched him, eyes wide. "Wow, you took that well."

"Shut up." Gus snapped. "I've had a shock."

"I can see that," Shawn grinned.

Gus glowered. "You're not talking this seriously, Shawn. You could spend the rest of your life in pain!"

"I'm the one who feels it, so believe me, I'm taking it as seriously as it needs to be took."

Gus scowled. "It's a little hard to buy that when you're sitting there smirking, Shawn."

"Dude, it's a little hard not to. The way you keep pontificating and popping up and down – you're like a floor show, a one man play, and a wack-a-mole all in one."

"Shawn!"

"Okay. Okay." Gus watched as Shawn carefully and obviously arranged his features into a cartoonish expression of despair. "Is that better?"

"Bite me."

Shawn laughed. "No, look, it's really okay. It won't affect my range of motion and it will probably fade over time. It really is okay, Gus."

Gus huffed out a breath, letting himself be reassured – though he didn't like the 'probably', not one little bit. "Did they say what caused it?"

"Something about a bone chip and migration, or something. Abby had just left, so I wasn't paying real strict attention." He plucked at his blanket, his earlier funk settling back around him like a smog cloud, toxic and thick.

"She was wrong you know," Gus said, after a long, awkward moment.

Shawn glanced up. Tried to smile. Failed. Went back to picking at the blanket. "You don't have to hang around tonight, you know. I know I'm pretty much a downer right now, and I'll be asleep as soon as I get my fix. So you are officially free from friendship duties this evening," he concluded with a grin. "Fly, little bird, fly."

"I'm going to forgive you for that because you've a really bad week." Gus crossed his arms. "Now open the on-demand, find a movie, and quit being stupid."

The movie was Hot Fuzz, the company was great, and the night became much better.

And Gus still didn't get any work done.

But he still didn't regret it.

**


End file.
